Years and years and years ago, when the Whitney Museum was giving retrospective exhibitions to artists like David Salle and Eric Fischl, I remember standing there in the gallery, filled with loathing but nevertheless ambivalent; I could see a young art student, sitting on a bench with her drawing pad, copying one of the paintings like it was an Old Master at the Met. The message was clear: never mind my gut reaction, I had better get with the program or forever be one of those reactionary dopes like Hilton Kramer.